Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [100]
So Carl served his time, and tonight we’d finally be able to celebrate his initiation into his family's business. At least that was the plan.
As usual, the country club dining room was bountifully decorated with candles and brimming with bow-tied waiters. The Thorntons had a table center stage. Landon and Gloria were truly gracious to Dad. Since Mom died, I’d seen a glimmer of something in them that might be called compassion.
The Thorntons had already ordered appetizers and a bottle of wine, something with Beernauslese in the name, and the waiter started pouring. I turned my glass over before he reached me. Gloria, always quick on the uptake, looked at the glass, then at me, and said, “Leah, dear, don’t you like this wine? If not, we can certainly order another bottle of whatever you want.” She looked over her shoulder at the waiter, “Gary, would you mind bringing the wine list out again for us when you finish pouring? I think Leah might like to look it over.” She turned to me. “Unless you want something else entirely. A mixed drink?”
I bit my tongue. Hard. “No, thank you, Mrs. Thornton,” I said. “Gary, I don’t need a wine list. I’ll have a glass of water with lemon. Thank you.” I glared at Carl. He looked like I imagined he would at the Second Coming. Terrified. He opened his mouth, but words came of his mother's mouth instead.
“Aren’t you feeling well since your—” she paused “—rest? Did they advise you not to drink?”
“No, Mrs. Thornton,” I said, softly gracious, like I imagined Melanie in Gone with the Wind would speak. I placed my hand on top of Carl's clammy and shivering one.
He cleared his throat with a wet cough. The sound attracted the attention of Landon and my father who’d almost solved all the social, financial, and political issues of post-Katrina.
I summoned my inner Southern-magnolia and said to my Benedict Arnold husband, “Carl, honey, I thought you explained to your parents why I’m not drinking. Do you need me to tell them?”
“No, no. I’ll tell them,” he said. His spinal fluid had probably leaked out and drenched his shirt. “The reason Leah's not drinking—” He cleared his throat.
My father glanced over at him and reached for the bread basket.
What followed was a disaster of cosmic voiceover synchronicity. I watched my father's mouth open just as Carl choked out his own words. In that scope of time, each one speaking over the other:
Carl: “She's going to have a baby.”
Bob: “Because of her alcoholism, right?”
Gary brought my water to the table.
He must have sensed the impending explosion, like sensing the almost imperceptible shudders of the earth before it screamed open, swallowed what fell in its mouth, and settled into a gaping yawn. Gary placed the glass and a small crystal bowl of wedged lemons down, tipped his head, and, with a small Fred Astaire move, he disappeared.
Landon and Gloria, much to their credit, didn’t collapse on the tiled floor or leap out of their chairs. Landon straightened his array of silverware, aligning the squared ends of the utensils on each side of his dinner plate. In the meantime, Gloria lightly rubbed the front of her neck with one hand, and held the stem of her Waterford crystal wineglass with the other. She focused on it so intently, she could have been attempting to levitate the glass. Landon folded his napkin into a perfect square and placed it in the middle of his plate. He stood. “Son,” he placed his hand on the top of Gloria's chair, “your mother and I would like to speak to you, privately, in the Grill.”
He pulled out Gloria's chair. “Please excuse us.”
Carl didn’t protest. He looked in my direction, not really at me, and said, “I won’t be long.” He touched the top of my shoulder, then trailed into the Grill after his parents.
I refused to sit in the middle of the country club dining room to wait for Landon and Gloria to finish their grown-up time out with my husband. “No problem. Take as long as you need. Dad and I are going home, so if you’ll hand me the car keys.”
“You and your father don’t have to leave,